


Never Alone Again

by Aethelflaed



Series: Sawdust of Words [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), During Canon, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mentioned Beelzebub (Good Omens), Mentioned Hastur (Good Omens), Mentioned Michael (Good Omens), Mentioned Uriel (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Aziraphale's Trial in Heaven (Good Omens), Scene: Crowley's Trial in Hell (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23379481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: London - Saturday and Sunday, after the ApocalypseThey're on their own side now. But they aren't free yet.After the Apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley risk everything in one final, desperate gamble to break free of their old sides and truly start their life together.A story tracing through the Bus Scene, the Body Swap, and the Trials.--“We’re on our own side.” The five most wonderful, and most terrifying, words Aziraphale had ever heard.It was a new world and it was crushing him, smothering him – he’d lost his shop, he’d rebelled against Heaven, everything was falling apart around him, sliding away into an endless dark abyss.Everything except Crowley. And he could not, could not, let them take him away.He couldn’t stand to be alone again.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Sawdust of Words [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1451122
Comments: 45
Kudos: 177





	Never Alone Again

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to have read the rest of the series to follow this story, but I do recommend ["Give Them Hell,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20197555) in which Crowley and Aziraphale discuss the details of the swap. It takes place just before the section marked "Sunday Morning."
> 
> TW Because the threats in Hell get a little more intense, but nothing is shown apart from what's in the episode itself.

**Saturday Night**

**\--**

“We’re on our own side.” The five most wonderful, and most terrifying, words Aziraphale had ever heard.

It was a new world and it was crushing him, smothering him – he’d lost his shop, he’d rebelled against Heaven, everything was falling apart around him, sliding away into an endless dark abyss.

Everything except Crowley. And he could not, _could not,_ let them take him away.

He couldn’t stand to be alone again.

\--

He took the seat beside Crowley, the same row, and it was so much _closer_ than a bench or the Bentley. The last inch of air between them hummed, charged with six thousand years of history, with Wars and Rebellions and Falls and all of Heaven and Hell, everything that had ever stood between them.

Could Crowley feel it, too? The way the space between them burned and bubbled and boiled with promises of destruction and salvation? Had he heard it scream and howl between them across the centuries, as the distance grew smaller and smaller? Until they arrived at this moment, alone together, at the end of all things?

Aziraphale reached across that final inch and took Crowley’s hand.

And Crowley flinched.

He dropped the demon’s hand as if it burned him, bunched up his fists on his knees. It was too much, of course. Too needy. What was he thinking?

 _Get a grip on yourself,_ Aziraphale chided in his mind. _You saw how angry they were. Crowley will no doubt be fighting for his life in a few hours, and you expect him to make_ you _feel better?_

What Crowley needed – what _Our Side_ needed, if there was to be an _Our Side_ for more than a few hours – wasn’t a clingy, emotional angel drowning in his own fears. It was the calm, logical Aziraphale who came up with plans and solved puzzles.

He was _sure_ that version of Aziraphale was still around here somewhere.

Beside him, Crowley shifted, turned to face him, and Aziraphale could _feel_ the frown, imagine exactly how it looked around those dark lenses. “Angel –”

“No.” Aziraphale stared straight ahead. There wasn’t time for this. They could discuss it later, if there was a later. Now, he needed to _think._

\--

Crowley had been…not asleep, he might never sleep again…but his mind was heavy and blank with the events of the day. Of the week. Of eleven years. Of eternity.

It seemed just then, looking back, that his entire life had been just an endless series of losses, of pain, of crashing from one disaster to the next without a moment to ever get his feet back under him. He’d Fallen, had Heaven and everything that he was ripped out of his chest, and he’d been Falling ever since. All alone, through an endless void, a cosmic game that maybe the humans could win (for a little while, humans only ever did anything for a little while), but not Crowley. The entire deck was stacked against Crowley.

He knew it wasn’t true. There had been good times. He just couldn’t _remember_ them. He was so _tired,_ and the exhaustion seeped down into every last crack in the remains of his soul.

How long did he have left? A day? A few hours?

Perhaps, when they came, he’d just let them take him. Let it happen. He didn’t want it to be over. He just wasn’t sure he had the strength to fight again.

Out of the darkness, a warm hand wrapped around his, catching him, filling him with energy, pulling him back to reality.

Almost before he could process it, long before he could react, the hand vanished.

Aziraphale was sitting next to him. His angel, right beside him, offering a furtive touch, a soft, quiet bit of comfort, at the moment Crowley needed it most. How did he know? How did he always know?

“Angel –”

“No.”

There was no softness now. His jaw was tight, steely determination in his eyes. Aziraphale didn’t even glance towards him, just stared straight ahead, so focused, so determined. So _strong._

Just looking at him, Crowley felt something relax in his chest, some tension fly away. They were still here. Still together. Nothing was over yet.

“Aziraphale…”

“Crowley, please.” His voice dropped to a whisper. _“When alle is sayed and all is done, ye must choose your faces wiseley, for soon enouff ye will be playing with Fyre.”_

“Was that the prophecy?”

“Yes. I’m certain it was meant for us, some type of clue. I just need…to think…”

It was amazing. After all that, after everything he’d lost, he was still going. Still fighting, in his way, turning their possible deaths over in his mind like a puzzle.

Sitting up a little straighter, Crowley tried to clear his head. Prepare himself for the next fight. Because if Aziraphale wasn’t going to give up, neither was he.

\--

The next hour, as the bus wound its way towards London, was the longest either of them had experienced since the beginning of Time itself, yet somehow the shortest, every heartbeat bringing them closer to the end, closer to the moment they would be destroyed…or free.

\--

The solution, when it finally came to Aziraphale, was so daring, so audacious, so impossible, he could hardly even whisper it out loud. The words slipped through unmoving lips, little more than a sigh.

Long fingers grasped his arm, burning hot through the jacket, as Crowley leaned close, hissing low and fierce: “Abssolutely not! Are you out of your mind?”

“It’s the only way!” A little louder now and, oh, how his voice shook.

“Then think of another one, I won’t do it!”

“Please, Crowley! I’ll talk you through it. As long as you keep your temper, you’ll be –”

“Thiss issn’t about _me!”_ The grip on his arm constricted, fingers clutching, until Aziraphale could feel how they trembled. His own were doing much the same. “I’m not ssending you to –” He cut off, pulling his hand away.

“It’s…it’s my choice,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound confident. “I can do this.”

Crowley folded his arms, almost huddling in on himself, turning to the window, turning his back on Aziraphale. He shook his head, not speaking.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale reached for that dark-clad shoulder, but couldn’t quite bring himself to touch it.

“I promised myself I’d never…” he shuddered, and if anything huddled down further. “Not now. We’ll talk later.”

\--

Aziraphale wouldn’t have believed the hallway could be so cold. It was a modern building, with some sort of fancy electric hypocaust! He could feel the heat through his shoes, and there was certainly no draft. Why on earth should he be shivering, then?

Perhaps it wasn’t the cold after all.

Crowley paused in front of what must be his own door, drumming his fingers sharply on the knob.

“Well? Are you going to open it, or will we just stand out here until –” There wasn’t really any _until_ he could joke about.

“Before we go in,” Crowley started slowly, “I should warn you. It’s…not easy to explain…”

“Crowley, if this is about your taste in interior design, I am _well_ aware. I’m sure whatever new artwork you’ve acquired, I –”

“What? No, this isn’t about –” but his annoyance drained away almost immediately. “This is – when you called earlier…”

“Ah. Your ‘old friend.’” He’d wondered at the time, but it seemed rather obvious now. “Hell sent someone, didn’t they?”

“Two someones. Hastur and Ligur. Dukes of Hell. So I...” He swallowed, glancing over at Aziraphale. “I used the Holy Water. Got Ligur. Tricked Hastur. Got to the bookshop fast as I could. Too late.” His voice fell lower with each word, until it was nearly inaudible.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale couldn’t even think where to begin. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. If I’d listened this morning when you –”

“Shut up. S’not my point.” He straightened up, adjusting his hand on the knob again. “I left without cleaning. Nasty mess. Nasty smell. And I don’t remember where I left the flask. I just…I didn’t want you to…to…you know…”

“Of course. I understand.”

Crowley nodded, and shoved open the door.

\--

A single drop of Holy Water is enough to destroy a demon, or permanently maim him if he’s exceedingly lucky about where it lands.

A little more than two ounces will dissolve a demon down to rank black fluid, including any clothing that had absorbed enough demonic essence.

Aziraphale had given Crowley around forty ounces, enough to destroy his soul, his body, his clothing, his glasses, every trace of him wiped from the face of existence.

But not quite enough to purify itself again afterwards.

\--

What Aziraphale noticed first was the stench. Not remotely sulfuric – not the burnt-match smell that always clung to Crowley no matter how he tried to hide it; not the rotten-egg stench of a demon fresh from Hell. This was something far worse, far fouler, unlike any scent on Earth.

The angel stumbled back, pressing a hand to his nose. He knew the _theory_ of how Holy Water worked, but he’d never seen – or smelt – it in action before, and it was worse than he’d ever expected.

“Ylch,” Crowley said, scrunching his face. “Not sure what to do about this.” He waved his hand over the black sticky residue that seemed to coat half the floor of the room beyond. It didn’t _look_ like it could possibly still be holy, but Aziraphale didn’t want to take any chances.

“Allow me.” He snapped his fingers, imagining the entire mess tidied up and deposited in the bins behind his shop.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, concentrating harder.

Still no effect.

“Why can’t I…” Of course. No shop. No bins. Nowhere for it to go.

“It’s alright, Angel,” Crowley started. “We can just –”

“Oh, hush you,” Aziraphale interrupted, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. One last snap of shaking fingers, and the mess was gone, transported under a tree in St James’s Park. The floor was clean now. No remnant of Holy Water or demon.

A wave of Aziraphale’s hand brought a gentle breeze, dispersing the odor, replacing it with the scent of fresh apple pie.

“There. That’s better.” He stepped into the room, smiling back at Crowley, who still hung uncertainly in the doorway. “I believe it’s time for us to talk.”

\-- --

**Sunday Morning**

\--

Aziraphale couldn’t look.

The sight of his body from the outside made him uneasy. It wasn’t even really his body, just a corporation. One he’d worn for six thousand years, yes, or at least a perfectly identical copy, but it wasn’t _him._ Seeing it move around without him, seeing Crowley’s calculating look from his own blue eyes, from _the body’s_ blue eyes, that shouldn’t upset him, shouldn’t make him feel as though reality were slipping away. It shouldn’t, but it did.

He stared at the desk, the telephone, the window, anything but the figure behind him.

Long, thin hands nervously adjusted the lapels of Crowley’s jacket. “When do you think…” He trailed off. It was Crowley’s voice, but too high, too precise. He tried again, struggling to match Crowley’s drawl. “When d’you think they’ll come?”

“I don’t know.” _That_ sounded like him, every word, every syllable exactly in place. Aziraphale swore to himself that if they survived the next few hours, he would never again accuse Crowley of not listening. “Could be any moment, though I rather expect they’re waiting for us to let our guards down.”

Aziraphale shifted his weight, starting to bring himself to face…to turn around, but it didn’t feel right. His _senses_ were unchanged, for the most part – how he saw things, heard them, smelt them, all that seemed to be connected to his angelic self, not the body he wore. But his balance was gone, his control, every gesture overcompensated as he tried to make the new body cooperate.

He rested against the table until the vertigo passed. “And...if they don’t come?” He cleared his throat, lowering his voice further. “Might make us wait. Stew in our own uncertainty, and all that.”

“Hardly. I don’t think either side has the patience for that.” A heavy sigh, more Crowley’s style that the angel’s. “St. James’s Park at noon. As we discussed. If there isn’t any word by then, we’ll come up with a new plan.”

“Yes, noon.” The hands Aziraphale controlled tugged at Crowley’s waistcoat, then back to the jacket lapels again, too-long fingers fumbling over the familiar gesture. “I suppose I can…” Still didn’t sound right. He tugged at the sleeves, twisted the watch. “I’ll wait here. Seems as good a place as any. You?”

The fingers tapping on the doorknob didn’t sound as sharp as last night. “The bookshop. Or what’s left of it.” Aziraphale closed his eyes. He didn’t even want to _picture_ that.

“You should go,” he said, and suddenly it was much easier to match Crowley’s rough tone. “Probably already waiting for you. Wankers,” he added, because it seemed like something Crowley would do, but he immediately wished he could call the word back.

A chuckle behind him. _“Language.”_ He turned unsteadily to find that Crowley was no longer next to the door, his own face – his body’s face – _Aziraphale’s face_ was very near and he wasn’t ready for that.

The bowtie was crooked.

The sight of Crowley’s thin fingers reaching to straighten it almost undid him entirely. But the familiar feel of the fabric as he righted it, adjusted it, smoothed it out, seemed to ground him. Calm him.

“Keep fixing this,” Aziraphale said when he was satisfied, letting the hands fall away. “Any time you…you need a moment to think, or…”

“I know,” Crowley snapped, reaching up to smooth the fabric again. It was so strange to watch. “I know,” he said again, more softly. “But _you_ need to stop.”

Before Aziraphale could react, plump hands were reaching for him, roughly tugging the black waistcoat back to where it had been, shaking the shoulders of the jacket to hang differently, running a thumb along the chain that peeked out from behind the tie, tucking it back in place.

It only lasted a few seconds, but Aziraphale was certain his heart stopped beating.

Last of all, Crowley reached up and adjusted the glasses, settling them on Aziraphale’s face again. “Remember. Don’t take them off. Not for anything.”

“I remember.” The fingers fell away, never quite brushing his skin, and the angel longed to grab them, pull that hand back against him. He couldn’t make any sense of what he was feeling just now, but it was all less confusing when they were close.

How long had Crowley had that effect on him? Perhaps it had always been this way. Just like Aziraphale, to wait until the last possible moment to notice.

With a nod, Crowley stepped away, clasping hands behind his back. Perfectly at ease. He seemed to have no trouble moving. “Practice walking. I pace when I’m alone, so that…that should be fine.”

“Course,” Aziraphale whispered, leaning against the desk behind him, gripping the ornate metal as tightly as he could. “Any…anything else I should know?”

“Don’t let them keep you more than a day,” Crowley said, arms folded, forgetting himself for a second. “That’s when the…the rot starts to set in.” He sucked in a breath. “Shouldn’t take that long anyway. But if anything goes wrong, if they try to hold you, just…get out.” Aziraphale finally met his eyes, tried to hold their gaze. It was almost too painful to bear. “Do whatever you have to do. Just get back to Earth and find me.”

Aziraphale nodded. “You as well,” he managed.

“See you in a few hours.” Crowley walked back to the door, limbs moving more quickly and smoothly than they ever had under Aziraphale’s command. He paused, halfway into the corridor, head turned to glance over his shoulder one last time. “M-Mind how you go,” he said in a tone that was just a little too bright.

Then he was gone. And Aziraphale was alone.

\--

Crowley wished he could have stayed.

Weaving down the streets of Mayfair, each step felt slower, heavier – not because of the unaccustomed weight of Aziraphale’s body, that was somehow comforting, but because he couldn’t bear the idea of leaving the angel to deal with a demonic ambush on his own.

Who would they send? Hastur, of course. More, this time, four, maybe five demons. He ran down a mental list of candidates, then gave up. If Beelzebub zirself was calling for his capture, more than half the demons in Hell would be lining up to volunteer for that duty. He’d made a lot of enemies in his time, and only one friend, and now…

Crowley found himself at the edge of St James’s Park. He braced one hand – soft, pale, wearing that golden ring – against the wrought iron bars of the gate, tried to clear his head. There was no point in worrying about Aziraphale now. They’d talked all night, gone over every detail; the angel was as prepared as he was going to get.

He knew he should worry more about himself. It might actually be _useful_ to consider who Heaven would send for him, who would be masterminding his trial and punishment. Probably Gabriel. Self-righteous bastard, but unimaginative. Crowley half expected to see him coming down the street any second, a whole legion of angels waiting to take Aziraphale into custody.

No, that was more Michael’s style; if she was directing this, there would be squads of angels on every street in the West End. Gabriel would probably wait outside the remains of the shop with his favorite enforcers just behind.

However they did it, though, it would involve a display of power. Possibly a fight. He thought again of Hastur and Ligur breaking through his door, only this time finding Aziraphale, grabbing him, dragging him down to –

Crowley noticed the hand gripping the bars, white knuckled, trembling. Even knowing it was _his_ hand, his heart still broke to see it. He pulled it back to his chest, cradled it with the other hand. Remembered that furtive clasp on the bus the night before.

 _Aziraphale is strong,_ he reminded himself. _Stronger than you are, when he has to be. He can handle this._

He took a deep, shaking breath. Then another. Then a third, again and again until the trembling was gone. “Right,” he said, as brightly as he could. “Time to go.”

\--

Learning the walk wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped.

“Right,” Aziraphale muttered, “one more try.”

He stood with his back to the windows, surrounded by brilliantly verdant plants that seemed to be trembling in some unfelt draft. From here, he could see the glass walls of the apparently-unused bedroom, a few smaller potted plants placed by the door. It wasn’t how Aziraphale felt a bedroom _should_ look; it was as if Crowley had taken a picture from a magazine and copied it exactly into reality.

The whole flat was like that, really; each room a perfect model of a human habitation, looking fresh, un-lived-in. Here and there a work of art or an outdated possession suggested true personality, but no more than a hint.

Somehow, it was exactly what he’d expected, yet depressingly _wrong._ Crowley had been insisting for almost two centuries that London was “where he belonged,” but this wasn’t a home. Why anyone would choose to stay in a place like this was beyond –

“Focus, Angel,” he snapped at himself, and fought back a smile at the comfort of hearing Crowley’s voice. Right. No time to worry about that now.

Focusing on the bedroom wall, Aziraphale swung one long leg out before him.

It seemed to contain too many bones, or too few, shooting wildly out of his control, swaying further away and to the side than should be possible. Somehow, he managed to land on it, and now the other leg was moving, without his direction, as if it had a mind of its own. He tried to stop it, tried to assert control over his limbs, and instead wound up in a heap on the floor.

The plants were still trembling, but the draft seemed somehow different. More mocking.

_Don’t be absurd. Next thing you’ll think they’re laughing at you._

He twisted around until his eyes were looking back through that absurd revolving door into what could generously be called the study. The television in the wall still stood dark and silent. Good. Crowley had said his superiors used it to contact him sometimes, and the last thing either of them needed right now was the forces of Hell spying on the demon Crowley as he apparently re-learned to walk.

There was something behind it, in an alcove. A shape in the shadows that looked vaguely familiar. Aziraphale struggled to get upright, still studying it, trying to recall –

He remembered.

Standing in the ruins of a church, ashes falling like snow, in the middle of the London Blitz. Eagle lectern behind him with wings aflame. Even seventy-six years later, his hand still burned where their fingers had brushed as Crowley handed over the brown Gladstone bag filled with books.

Aziraphale drifted closer, lost in that moment, indelibly preserved in his mind.

_Little demonic miracle of my own._

Yes, burnt black smudges across the wings, as he’d expected.

But then, he hadn’t needed to see them to know it was the same. To remember every detail: the cold night air, the faint, acrid smell of TNT smoke, the way everything inside him had gone still in wonder.

After all, an angel didn’t forget the moment the scales fell from his eyes, the moment he finally confronted the powerful emotion that had been growing in his heart, creeping its way into every corner of his being, filling the emptiness, the loneliness he thought would be with him forever.

The moment he’d realized that, quite possibly, Crowley felt the same.

His fingers brushed down the rough stone of the lectern.

 _Could_ Crowley feel the same? It was a question he’d wrestled with across seven decades. Could _any_ being hold this much in his heart, and not be destroyed by it?

Aziraphale glanced away, letting the emotions settle again before they tore him apart. Only then did he realize he’d walked across half the flat without falling. He hadn’t even thought about it. Apparently, his limbs worked fine if he just trusted them to sort themselves out.

Well. He could do that, at least.

After all, he’d been trusting in Crowley for a long, long time.

\--

Crowley really hadn’t wanted to see the burned-out shell of the bookshop again. If it was just a question of waiting for the inevitable strike, he could have stayed at the park, or strolled through the streets of Soho. He’d almost rather wait in the lobby of Heaven than see that wreck again, but he needed to know if anything had survived.

They hadn’t discussed their living arrangements the night before. Seemed a bit optimistic to think that far ahead. But Aziraphale would need a place to go, when it was all over, if it was ever over, and right now Crowley was trying very hard to believe that was possible, that they could come out the other side of this, that by the end of this miserable day they’d be talking about such mundane things again.

Whatever they wound up deciding, it would make Aziraphale feel better to have some piece of his old home. A half-burned book, perhaps, found tucked in some corner, or a piece of wood or metal from the stairs. Something to remind him of the first place on Earth he’d truly belonged. It would certainly make Crowley feel better, too, though he tried not to think about what that might mean.

He spent much of the walk through Soho mentally preparing himself for a morning of digging through ash and charcoal.

It was something of a shock, then, to find the entire shop had survived.

It loomed there, at the corner of the crossroads, exactly as it had been every day for two hundred and nineteen years. People rushed past without a glance, some of them the very gawkers who had stood in the road and watched it burn the day before. It was as if the fire had never happened.

The door opened at his touch, as it always had. The shop was never locked for Crowley or Aziraphale. The dawn-red light through the east window made him flinch, remembering the heat of the inferno, but then it was gone, and he was surrounded by the familiar bookcases and faded furniture – every chip of paint, every dusty shelf, every cobweb exactly where it belonged.

It had to be some sort of trap.

He stood by the table, resting his fingers on a stack of leather-bound books, looking around for anything out of place, any sign of where the attack would come from.

He finally spotted it – a new shelf, where there certainly hadn’t been one before, and a shiny row of children’s books sporting titles like _Just William, More William_ and _Still William._

Only picking one up didn’t seem to set off any ethereal signals, and the pages within contained stories about young boys going to the cinema or working in a sweet shop or getting into fights.

Nothing Heavenly about it at all. There was only one other possibility.

Adam.

The questions _how_ and _why_ raced through Crowley’s mind, before settling on _what else has changed?_ But, he decided, it didn’t matter just now.

He made himself a cup of tea in Aziraphale’s favorite mug and sat down to wait.

\-- --

**Sunday Afternoon**

\--

The world had been destroyed, and remade.

It was impossible, of course. That didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

It must have been some time during the night, in an instant. Neither of them had noticed, though Aziraphale would admit they’d been rather preoccupied.

He confirmed it later, waiting for Crowley in St James’s Park, turning the pages of a newspaper while the band played behind him.

Atlantis, gone, experts struggling to explain the geologic fluke that had created a continent one day and made it vanish just as easily the next.

The Kraken, back to the depths, a hundred psychologists ready to swear it was a mass hallucination.

Another mass hallucination had affected every driver on the M25, probably caused by a small heat wave that had struck the city. Many more had no memory at all of Saturday, including an entire office full of telemarketers. There was a detailed explanation of the symptoms and treatment of heat stroke.

The tornados and storms over Tadfield weren’t mentioned at all.

But Aziraphale didn’t need the news to be certain; he knew before he ever stepped out of the flat. Something was different, something in the air, new and fresh and full of potential, like the wind in the Garden of Eden. He couldn’t explain it, but just as he knew the body Adam had given him – the one Crowley currently wore – was a new creation, well, so was the entire world.

New, yet old. He could feel the age of it, the tiny scuffs on Crowley’s desk where he rested his feet, sense the history of the building that had been home to hundreds of humans over the decades, even the plants – if he focused _just right_ he could count the days of their lives stretched out before him.

It was an act of creation – if you could call it Creation, perhaps _Remaking_ was more appropriate – beyond anything Aziraphale was capable of. Likely beyond any angel who hadn’t been gifted with the power by God Herself.

He hadn’t been at all surprised to see the Bentley sitting outside, black and gleaming as it had always been, waiting for Crowley’s return.

He’d been elated, but prepared, to learn there was no damage to his shop.

Everything, it seemed, had been made _right._

Aziraphale had almost begun to believe it was over. That he’d misunderstood the prophecy, that Heaven and Hell had decided to pretend nothing had ever happened.

Until Crowley vanished, ripped from his side, dragged away by a team of angels in broad daylight.

Until something stuck him on the back of the head, and everything went dark and faded, except for the laughter of demons.

\--

Crowley thought he remembered Heaven. His memories were jumbled, but they were _there._ Mostly. Partially. Enough.

This didn’t seem right.

Take the windows, for a start. They’d once overlooked the endless expanse of a universe under construction. He could remember standing there with…with…wings spread out, hands pressed to the glass, watching… _something._ The earth below still a chaos of mists and fires, the sky dotted with the first stars.

Now, he looked out on the monuments and landmarks of Earth. Jumbled together. Tacky.

The worst was the emptiness.

He knew that Heaven was less crowded than Hell, but as he was dragged down one endless white corridor after another, he saw no one. Sometimes, in the distance, a figure hurrying about their business, alone, not looking around. But they didn’t pass anyone, not a single angel.

Surely there had always been angels everywhere, traveling in groups, smiling, talking, planning, hoping for…whatever it was they’d hoped for back then.

The memory slipped away.

He tried to keep his eyes ahead, to pretend he’d seen it all. Keep his expression blank, ignore the ill feelings that crossed through his mind again and again. Let Uriel and Sandalphon drag him – bound and gagged – until they reached a wide white room, empty except for a single chair.

This was _wrong._

This wasn’t where trials were held. That was…elsewhere…again the memory struggled and escaped, but for a moment he could see it clearly. There should be more – a dais for the Archangels, all of them assembled; a place for witnesses to stand, hundreds of them, yes. To make an example of the traitor.

No witnesses here, not even all the Archangels – just his two escorts, shoving him into the chair and ripping off his gag.

“I hardly see that any of this was necessary,” Crowley said, aiming for Aziraphale’s polite tone, but missing, sounding stilted instead. “I’ve been perfectly cooperative,” he tried again.

“Quiet,” snapped Uriel, not even looking him in the eye.

The ropes that bound him fell away, and the two angels pressed his hands against the arms of the chair. When they stepped back, long white coils of rope held each arm in place.

Well. Showtime.

Crowley took a deep breath and pictured that superior look Aziraphale always wore when he knew he was right. Tried to imitate the way Aziraphale managed to look down his nose at you even while seated. And the tone, of course: polite, firm, and just condescending enough to set you on edge without being outright rude.

“I’m sure there’s been a dreadful misunderstanding,” Crowley began, bracing himself to be interrupted, shouted down, even hit. “I know everyone was quite keen to start this Apocalypse, but I think you’ll find…”

Crowley’s voice – Aziraphale’s voice – trailed off as Uriel and Sandalphon did the one thing he would never expect.

They walked away.

\--

Crowley had never told Aziraphale what Hell was like. It was one of the few topics they never spoke on, not in six thousand years.

Still, he’d managed to cobble an image together from guesses, deductions, things Crowley let slip, and certain information available in Heaven. It gave him a rough idea of the cruel, crowded place Crowley had been sent to after his Fall.

Reality turned out to be much worse.

“Move,” shouted one demon, dragging him by the hair as Aziraphale scrambled to stay on his feet. On Crowley’s feet. Struggled not to fall.

“Stop that!” But his voice sounded small, weak, shaky, not angry at all.

The demon all but threw him against the wall, tiles slick with something Aziraphale didn’t want to think about. Didn’t want to think about any of it, really. His head still ached where he’d been hit.

In the flickering sickly-bright light, the two demons sent to guard him seemed to loom, shapeless shadows blocking his escape.

 _Don’t be afraid,_ he reminded himself. _Cool. Confident. Outrageous._ He tried to imagine what Crowley would do if he were here.

“Do you have any idea how long I spent on this hair?” he demanded, lifting his manacled hands to try and smooth it into place. Trying to sound as if that was his only concern. “Do you think it’s easy to –”

Thick fingers suddenly gripped his jaw, smashing his head back against the wall. “I’m getting sick of your voice, _Crawly,”_ the demon rumbled.

“I’s… _Crow—”_ he managed, before the demon shook him, wrenching his neck painfully.

“We’re _supposed_ to bring him in unharmed,” the second demon reminded them, not seeming overly concerned.

“Dunno. Can’t snakes dislocate their jaw?” A chuckle as the fingers dug deeper, pressing against his teeth, his throat.

“That’s – actually, that’s a common misconcep—” Aziraphale’s voice – Crowley’s voice – cut off as the hand nearly lifted him off his feet.

“One more word out of you and I’ll rip your tongue out and take my chances with Lord Beelzebub’s wrath. Understand?”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, grateful for the glasses that hid them. He wanted to nod – agree – smile disarmingly and let the demons know they were in charge, that he wouldn’t cause any trouble.

But Crowley wouldn’t submit.

“Wow. What kind of…beetle…crawled up your…bottom…and died?” he adlibbed frantically.

The demon growled, leaning close enough that Aziraphale could see the pustules, the sores, the places where the flesh was starting to rot off the bone. Aziraphale prepared himself to find out exactly what a broken jaw felt like. He was probably going to scream. He didn’t think he could stop himself.

But the second demon interceded, pulling the first off him.

“Don’t let him get to you,” the second demon hissed. “Everyone knows Crawly is a disrespectful little shit.”

“I’ll kill him right now. That’ll put an end to it.”

“Don’t,” the second warned. “That’s what he wants.”

“For the record? Really isn’t,” Aziraphale interjected, because he’d started talking and couldn’t quite remember how to stop.

The second demon spun, grabbing him by the throat, jagged nails digging deep into the flesh. “And you. If it weren’t for _you,_ I’d be ripping the wings off angels _right now._ I could very easily do yours instead. So don’t. Tempt. Me.”

At that moment, hot breath of the strange demon burning his cheek, Aziraphale was filled with more fear than he’d felt in centuries. Millennia. Possibly since the War itself. But one thought shone bright and clear in his mind:

Crowley was safe.

Safe from these demons, from Beelzebub, from all of Hell. Whatever they’d done to him in the past – and a thousand half-healed scars and wounds flashed through his mind with sickening clarity – Crowley was far away, where they couldn’t reach him. And it was up to Aziraphale to make sure they never touched him again.

So he grinned that big, infuriatingly cheeky grin Crowley always wore when Aziraphale said something especially foolish.

“You really don’t know me, then,” Aziraphale said, cool and confident as his demon always was. “Because I’m the best there is at Temptation. Go on. Rip my throat out.” Aziraphale stepped forward and the demon stumbled back uncertainly. “Because I think Lord Beelzebub went through a lot of trouble to bring me here today. And I don’t think ze will be very happy if I’m torn apart by two no-name demons in some rotting back corridor, do you?”

Something in that speech made the two demons _very_ angry. Aziraphale didn’t know what word had set them off. Rotting? Corridor? One gave a rumbling growl like a jackal, the other the rattling click of an insect.

So Aziraphale did exactly what Crowley had told him not to do.

He pulled off the glasses. Pinned the two demons with the glare he reserved for customers who tried to touch his favorite illuminated manuscripts. And then, for good measure, he hissed.

He didn’t have the sound quite right. It seemed a bit too much like a cat’s hiss.

But it worked. The two demons retreated, enough for Aziraphale to march past. Settling the glasses back on his face, he stalked down the corridor – bound, bruised, head sore and hair a mess – as if he were the one in charge. He didn’t quite think he could pull off the swagger, but it seemed he had them fooled.

Now he just had to convince the Lords of Hell.

\--

Isolation.

Bound to a chair and left alone as if forgotten.

As a torture technique, it was not especially intimidating. The chair was barely even uncomfortable, and the temperature of the room was almost unnervingly perfect. For a demon as experienced as Crowley, this was practically relaxing.

Except.

Except this wasn’t intended for him. This was for Aziraphale.

And that made him angry.

“Hello?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded thin and lost, swallowed up by the empty room. “Can anyone hear me? I…I rather thought you wanted to speak to me?”

Not even an echo.

He tested the ropes again, kicked his feet against the floor. It was an office chair, on wheels, but it refused to move. Somehow, that was even more insulting.

He tried to guess how long he’d been sitting here. Minutes? Hours? Pity Aziraphale had the watch. He wondered what was happening to the angel right now.

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Excuse me!” he called again. “Only I was in the middle of something important. Could we hurry this along?”

They hadn’t come for him at the shop.

Crowley had waited for hours, expecting the attack every moment. He’d pretended to read, moved books from one shelf to another and back again, whatever he could to look like an easy target.

Nobody came.

Until they met at the park. Until they were together.

Obvious, really.

Heaven wanted to hurt Aziraphale. Wanted to take him from the place that he felt safest. And that was at Crowley’s side.

Heaven wanted the last thing Aziraphale saw of Earth to be Crowley, attacked, beaten, dragged down to Hell. So he would know there was no hope of rescue.

Heaven wanted Aziraphale to be terrified, alone, utterly defeated, completely hopeless. Then they wanted him to sit here, in this empty room, as if he were nothing.

He could imagine what that would have done to Aziraphale. And that made Crowley _furious._

“Get back here,” he growled under his breath, head lowered, glaring in the direction the two angels had disappeared. “Get back here and face me, you cowards.”

It was a display of power, alright. One specifically designed for Aziraphale, who hated more than anything to feel abandoned, alone.

Like Crowley had left him alone, at the bandstand, at the street corner just yesterday morning. Threatening to run, to leave Earth and everything behind forever.

But he’d never really leave. Aziraphale knew that, right? Aziraphale understood he was just angry and afraid and…

He remembered a hand, reaching out for his in a moment of despair. And realized, with stomach-dropping certainty, Aziraphale hadn’t been trying to comfort him at all.

That determined look, on the bus – did Aziraphale really believe they could win? Or was he just terrified Crowley would leave him again if he didn’t have a plan?

Why hadn’t Crowley reached back to take his hand again? Reminded him that, no matter what happened, they would face it together?

“Sstop it,” he hissed at himself. He couldn’t believe this pathetic psychological torture was having an effect. He needed to stay in control. Aziraphale was _trusting_ him to stay calm. Everything else, they would deal with once they were safe.

Footsteps. Someone was coming.

Yes, Uriel, and just as they arrived Sandalphon appeared coming from the other direction. As if it wasn’t planned, and they just happened to come across him while doing something else.

Crowley took a breath and smiled as brightly as he could into Uriel’s stoic face.

“Ah, so glad you’re here. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a glass of water?”

\--

Holy Water.

Aziraphale couldn’t take his eyes off it, even as Michael walked away, even as the demons behind him started talking.

It was everything they’d bet on. That they would be executed by fire and water, that they could stop it by posing as each other. They’d been right. They’d won.

It didn’t feel like winning.

It felt like every demon in Hell gathered together to murder Crowley.

Thirty gallons of Holy Water in the middle of Hell.

He watched as the small demon screamed, struggled, tried to swim to the side even as his body dissolved, deflated, melted into pure black, and a moment later even that was gone, the water perfectly clear again.

No sash. No medals. As if the demon had never existed.

Even the stench, which had lingered for hours in Crowley’s flat, was already dissipating, the air itself washed clean.

Beelzebub was saying something. Extinction. Holy Water. Anything to say.

He had to turn and face his accusers. Had to say something clever.

Had to stop imagining Crowley in that tub, screaming, struggling, dissolving to nothing.

“Well.” Crowley would have some clever line ready to go. “Yes.” A quote from a film. A joke. A play on words. _Something._ “Um.” Quite suddenly, Aziraphale couldn’t remember a single thing Crowley had ever said.

Instead, incongruously, he remembered a trip to Italy over two centuries before, and a new dish, pasta made with tomato sauce, and before sitting down to enjoy it, he’d said…

“This is a new jacket and I’d hate to ruin it. Do you mind if I take it off?”

\--

Twenty feet of blistering Hellfire churned beside them. Enough to burn an angel to ashes in seconds.

And they just let him stand there, unbound, free. As if it were unthinkable for him to try and get away.

It was so _cold_ in Heaven. Not the temperature. Even here, six steps away from the column of flames, Crowley didn’t think he’d felt so comfortable for thousands of years.

No, the coldness came from the angels. Every withering look, every dismissive glance. Even Gabriel’s polite smiles and shoulder claps, as if this were all a misunderstanding they would soon clear up.

In Hell, they would have insulted him, threatened him, reminded him of his place. Here, they expected him to already know it.

Crowley tugged at his clothes, straightening them smoothing the bowtie. Had he ever noticed before how worn and threadbare the waistcoat was, how delicate the fabric under his fingers? As if it might fall apart with just a little more stress…

He gave Gabriel Aziraphale’s most brilliant smile. Crowley was sure he had it right. Wished he had a mirror – he could use the sight of that smile right now. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to reconsider?”

More of those cold looks.

“We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Well, for _Heaven’s sake,_ we’re meant to make examples out of traitors. So,” Gabriel gestured, as if waving for him to walk through a door first. “Into the flame.” And he smiled.

That was it.

No trial. No defense. No witnesses. They were just going to kill Aziraphale, no, _ask him to kill himself,_ and…what? Pretend he never existed?

Crowley had never been a violent demon.

But right now he was ready to test his strength against three of the most powerful angels in Heaven.

Bathed in the orange light of the fire, Crowley found he was filled with more fury than he’d felt in centuries. Millennia. Possibly not since his Fall. But one thought was clear as anything in his mind:

Aziraphale was in Hell right now, risking everything because he believed in _Our Side._

Whatever Heaven had done to him, however they’d tried to beat him down over six _thousand_ years – and oh, _Someone,_ Crowley could think of a thousand little comments that he shouldn’t have dismissed, a thousand clues that added up to this deep, echoing, painful emptiness that filled every corner of Heaven – Aziraphale finally, truly believed he wasn’t alone. That he had something worth fighting for.

He was out of their reach, free of their control, and it was Crowley’s job to survive this, get back to him, and make sure he never, ever felt alone again.

Which meant he had to push down that anger, smile, and face his would-be executioners with dignity, patience and grace, just as Aziraphale would.

“Right. Well…lovely knowing you all,” he managed, though it didn’t feel like enough. “May we meet on a better occasion.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.” Gabriel flashed another smile under furious eyes.

On second thought, perhaps a _little_ anger was in order.

\--

Most of the crowd had dispersed, moving very quickly once Dagon started shouting at them. They’d seen enough, though: Crowley immune to Holy Water, Crowley talking back to Beelzebub, Crowley unafraid of even the Archangel Michael.

The rumors would spread. They would grow. Until no demon would dare approach the Serpent of Eden ever again.

He tossed the jacket over his shoulder and turned back to face Beelzebub, Hastur and Dagon.

“That was just what I needed today. _Really_ refreshing,” he said, smiling in that way Crowley had, showing all of his teeth.

“I don’t know how you pulled that off, Crowley,” Hastur started, but cut off as Aziraphale took a step towards him.

“No. You don’t. And you’re not likely to figure it out.” He lifted his free hand and ruffled it through Crowley’s damp hair. It wasn’t quite wet enough to send drops flying, but the demons all flinched anyway. That was good. “Am I free to go?”

“Demon Crowley.” Aziraphale really had to hand it to Beelzebub, ze managed to sound almost as unphased and bored as when he’d first entered. “You are now an Outlaw of Hell. No demon may offer you shelter or protection from now until the end of time. You are exziled to Earth for as long asz the Earth exzistsz. Do you undersztand your punishment?”

Aziraphale wanted to laugh. As if the protection of Hell had ever meant anything. He thought again of all the times he’d met up with Crowley, the demon covered with bruises and scars and worse, trying to hide them, the damage, the pain he was in. No, it wasn’t funny at all.

“Exiled to Earth. Left alone. That’s all I want.” The two guards stepped up behind him, but Aziraphale spun and did his best to saunter away without losing balance. “I know the way out, thanks all the same.”

As he exited the room, it occurred to Aziraphale that Crowley would say something…clever. Jaunty. Possibly sassy.

He raised a hand over his head in a lazy backwards wave and called, “Later, gators.”

Oh, dear, that probably wasn’t right. Aziraphale walked faster.

\--

When Crowley felt Gabriel and the other angels were sufficiently impressed, he stepped out of the column of fire, smoothing his lapels once more. “Well, that was most refreshing. Will there be anything else?”

He liked the way they cowered before him. But it wasn’t enough. He was beginning to understand what they had done to Aziraphale, for thousands of years, and it would never be enough.

Crowley found an ember, just a spark, buried in the folds of the jacket. He pulled it out, rolled it between his fingers, then flicked it at Gabriel’s feet. The Archangel jumped back. “What _are_ you?” he demanded again.

 _Calm down,_ Crowley ordered himself. _Aziraphale wouldn’t be this cocky._

He folded his hands in front of him and smiled, not really making any effort to have it reach his eyes. “What I am, my dear Gabriel, is _late_ for a meeting with my friend. If you’re done playing your little game, I think it’s high time I left. Don’t you?”

Gabriel’s violet eyes flicked to the side. “Fine. Uriel, Sandalphon, take him –”

“Oh, _no,”_ Crowley chided, taking another step forward. “I’m here as _your_ guest, Gabriel. You really should escort me yourself. To the front entrance.” He tilted his head and fixed the Archangel with another glare. “You wouldn’t want to be _rude,_ would you?”

Crowley couldn’t believe he’d spent six thousand years wanting to punch Gabriel; the look of impotent rage on his face just then was infinitely more satisfying. Finally, the Archangel nodded, lips tight. “You two wait here until our… _associate_ returns for the fire.”

He walked past Crowley, moving as fast as he could. With one last wave – just a wiggle of fingers, don’t overdo it – Crowley turned to amble after him. “Don’t go too fast now, Gabriel, you wouldn’t want me to wander off, would you?”

\--

On the elevator ride back up, Aziraphale adjusted his clothes with shaking fingers, buttoning the waistcoat, re-knotting the tie.

Almost out.

Almost there.

Just a few more minutes, and he’d be back with Crowley again…

\--

Crowley felt something very powerful, what the humans called _déjà vu._ It happened, sometimes, the holes in his memory from the Fall shifting around, bringing something lost almost to where his conscious mind could see it, then sinking away again. But rarely had it been so strong.

He wasn’t sure what was triggering it.

The corridor here wasn’t quite so empty. Groups of angels – two or three, no larger – walked past. Whispering. Glancing their way. Even as he struggled to remember, Crowley gave each group a cheerful wave. Let them remember this. Whatever lie Gabriel told, he’d have to explain why he personally escorted the smiling traitor out of Heaven.

His shoulder brushed Gabriel’s, and there it was again – he’d walked, not this corridor, but one like it, almost empty but not quite. Slipping away with another angel to…to talk about…something. Something very important. Who had he walked beside? Gabriel? Someone else? It coiled around him, almost where he could reach it, a name, a name that hurt to remember –

“I hope you’re satisfied with yourself,” Gabriel grumbled.

“Quite satisfied, yes.” The memory slipped back down into the darkest recesses of his mind.

Didn’t matter. He’d be back with the only angel he cared about in a moment.

“We’ll figure it out,” Gabriel warned, tone light and friendly. “Whatever your trick was. You always think you’re so clever, Aziraphale, trying to skirt around the rules. Trying to get away with your little…passions.” The escalator, just ahead. Crowley could see a figure below in the lobby, dressed all in black. Pacing. “Once we know what really happened here –”

“You’ll do nothing.” Crowley turned and pinned Gabriel with his fiercest glare. “You will leave me – leave _us_ —alone. Because you haven’t the first idea what I’m capable of. Not now that I’m free of you. And I am free. The best thing for all of us will be if I never see you again.”

Aziraphale had spotted them. He wasn’t waving yet, but Crowley could see how he bounced, swinging his shoulders excitedly. Any second he’d start grinning.

Surely Gabriel would recognize the body language. Already he had turned to the figure below, eyes narrowed. “He’ll betray you, you know. He’ll abandon you. You can’t trust a demon.”

The words cut through him like a knife. _How dare you. How dare you._

He took a deep breath and tried to control his expression, keep his hands clasped behind him where the Archangel couldn’t see them tremble. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, Gabriel. You’ve never trusted anyone.”

Crowley quickly stepped onto the escalator, before he could break character.

\--

Aziraphale watched Crowley’s painfully long descent down the escalator, struggling not to smile. Gabriel was behind him somewhere, fuming worse than he’d been yesterday at the air base, but that didn’t matter. That would never matter again.

Aziraphale played his part, tossed his head, shuffled his feet, even tried to figure out how to fit his hands in those tiny trouser pockets.

Finally, Crowley stepped onto the lobby floor – pale clothes, white hair, blue eyes. It was still surreal, seeing his body from the outside, like a strange dream. But somehow it was easier to accept now.

As he approached, Crowley shook his head slightly. Aziraphale turned and walked towards the door, towards Earth, towards freedom.

“They’re still watching,” Crowley warned as they paused before the revolving door.

The barest nod. “See you at the park?”

The back of Crowley’s hand brushed against his. Aziraphale let his forefinger twine around Crowley’s and, just for a second, Crowley held it, squeezed back, the tiniest pressure of finger and thumb. The heat of it shot up Aziraphale's arm like...like nothing else in Creation. “Nearly there,” Crowley whispered.

Heart brimming, Aziraphale stepped through the door and turned right. Crowley went left.

They were separated again, but not apart from each other, not really.

They’d done it. They were free.

And they would never be alone again.

\-- --

**Afterward**

\--

Nobody could storm through a corridor like the Archangel Gabriel.

He shed his human form, melting into a roiling, violet mass of light and anger, streaming through the halls of Heaven, announcing his arrival with bolts of lightning that tore the air apart. Angels ducked through doorways, turned down side paths, rushing to get out of his way, to escape the sight of a hundred furious eyes buried in a storm cloud.

Past the brightly lit corridors, the fountains, the libraries, the audience chambers – down a side passage that few traveled, to a small office that seemed almost abandoned. It was sparse, even by the austere standards of the celestial bureaucracy, only large enough for two or three angels around the simple desk. It hardly seemed the office of anyone important. Its occupant preferred things that way.

Gabriel condensed himself back into his usual form to confront the angel seated there. “Well, that was an unmitigated disaster.”

“Really?” The dark-haired figure did not look up from the paper lying on the desk, fingers tracing lightly across it, creating complex glyphs wherever they touched. “Do tell.”

“Well, for starters, the traitor is apparently _immune to Hellfire.”_

“Hmm.” The fingers didn’t pause in their task. “I thought something like that might happen.”

“You _thought_ – you’re the one who insisted on this punishment!”

The figure finally looked up, eyes solid green without any trace of white or black, face as blank as if the Almighty had forgotten to make it capable of expression. A face almost designed to be forgettable, except a single pale scar running from the left eye, across the cheek, down the neck, to vanish into the folds of the pale green tunic. “Now, Gabriel, I have neither the authority nor the inclination to _insist_ on anything. It was your idea to…coordinate strategy with the Fallen. I disagreed, but recommended a method of capture and execution best suited to your plans. How did it go otherwise?”

Gabriel sighed, but pulled himself back together. He wasn’t quite up to smiling again, but he could at least manage to act as though the little bastard hadn’t completely humiliated him. “Actually, everything else went according to plan. Both teams pulled off their capture with pinpoint timing, Michael walked in and out of Hell _twice_ without incident, even the no-name idiot they sent with the fire behaved himself.”

“I wish I’d had a chance to see that demon.” The angel drummed fingers on the desk. “No matter. You plan to go forward with forming this…partnership?” This time there was a hint of distaste in the pause.

“You still think it’s against the Plan.”

“Gabriel, none of us _knows_ what is or isn’t against the Plan, or if there even _is_ still a Plan. The world ended yesterday, precisely on schedule, and yet it continues to exist. We do not know how that can be, or what other changes or repercussions might arise from this transformation. An angel suddenly gaining an immunity to Hellfire is the least we should expect.”

“So, what,” Gabriel considered. “You think that Antichrist kid gave him this power as some kind of reward? For helping disrupt the War?”

“Possibly.” The other angel finally stood, circling around the desk, fingers trailing across the top of it. The last few inches of pale scar ran across the back of the left hand. “It could also be an effect of long-term association with one of the Fallen. Something _you_ should keep in mind if this partnership is to happen. I assume the demon was also immune to Holy Water?”

“Michael says he _enjoyed_ it.”

A nod. “And did either of them seem afraid or anxious before their attempted executions?”

“You know Aziraphale, afraid of his own wings. Only, I suppose, he _was_ a little different this time.”

Green eyes met his, the first glint of hardness behind them. “I will need you to tell me everything that happened. Everything he said. And testimony from all the witnesses at both trials, even the demons, if they can be trusted.”

“You’ll be following up on this, then?”

“Yes, I think, in due time. After all,” said Raquel, Archangel of Justice, “this is within my purview.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you haven't already, you may want to read ["Finding the Words"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715017) to make sure things turn out ok after they meet up again (spoiler alert: they do).
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience during my break from the main series. I'm doing a little re-evaluating of the overall plan, specifically, trying not to write a whole bunch of really depressing long fics in a row, especially now when people (myself included) are very stressed. No regular posting schedule at the moment, but I'm also writing one-offs with some regularity, so keep checking back in. (I apologize if this one wasn't quite my regular style, too...again, stressed, so I've been writing in shorter bursts.)
> 
> I am also pleased to *finally* introduce Raquel (aka Raguel) the Archangel of Justice. I've been trying to find a way to bring this character in since literally the beginning of the series, but it never felt like the right moment (or the stories in question had too many issues). That said, since I don't write in chronological order, I don't actually know when Raquel will turn up again. It'll be a surprise for everyone! ;)
> 
> History note: Electric hypocaust - a hypocaust is a Roman heating system that runs under the floors. Crowley's building has radiant heating, but Aziraphale doesn't know what to call it.
> 
> Thanks again! Kudos and comments are appreciated. :)


End file.
